


London and Elsewhere, Later That Year

by kete



Series: Living Legend [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Canon Compliant, Canon Compliant S1/2, Character Study, Gap Filler, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:05:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kete/pseuds/kete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself; but talent instantly recognises genius.”<br/>Sir Arthur Conan Doyle</p><p>The supporting characters reflecting on Sherlock's life and death - companion piece to "The Diogenes Club"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sally Donovan

**Author's Note:**

> "Heav'n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn'd,  
> Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn'd."  
> The Mourning Bride, William Congreve, 1697
> 
> Beta-read and Brit-picked by the fabulous SwissMiss. Thank you for all your good work! I'd be lost without my beta! ;-)
> 
> Multiple chapters to be posted in two weeks' intervals.

"Rot in hell, freak," Sally Donovan thinks as she moves her stuff into Lestrade's office. Lestrade was suspended, awaiting demotion or retirement depending on the revision, and she's acting Detective Inspector now, confirmation of her promotion just a formality, the Chief Superintendent had assured her. She had craved that promotion, sure - how could she not? But not at this price. Not when it had cost Lestrade his job. But what exactly had they thought would happen, when they blackmailed him into reporting Holmes to the Chief Super, Anderson and she? It was all Holmes' fault.

She's also been made a member of the newly formed Holmes Revision Group (HRG) assigned to do just that: revise every single case the freak ever touched. Meanwhile, convicted criminals are howling for retrials, claiming to have been taken in by Sherlock Holmes, who was, of course, the real perpetrator of the crimes they were convicted of.

Taken in, oh yes, she can imagine that. She'd been taken in herself when she met him the first time, some three years ago. She'd just joined Lestrade's team and it was down at the Thames, at some waterfront warehouse, when she'd heard the muffled sound of an engine, followed by the dull thud of a car door, and then he'd stepped out of the fog like an apparition.

Feanor, she'd thought dumbstruck, romantic at heart that she still was (and is), able to quote whole passages from Tolkien's 'Silmarillion'. An elf prince, indeed, tall and slender, with dark hair and silver eyes, son of the Noldor. She'd been smitten at first sight. And that voice.

"Sherlock Holmes, here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade," he'd introduced himself, politely enough. And she had actually blushed and stuttered, she remembers angrily. Blushed and stuttered, like a teenager, not the freshly minted Detective Sergeant she was.

Everything about him had spoken of old money: the looks, the attitude, the public school accent, the clothes - all understated elegance and oh, so posh. Not the product of a housing project, this one. No, this one was 'landed gentry', right out of an Austen novel.

And right there and then the first seed of envy and resentment had been sown, to grow and thrive and finally, three years later, burst into full bloom.

In the warehouse he had looked at the bodies, flipped out his magnifying glass, surveyed their clothing, hands, wounds, stepping around them, then inspecting the surroundings and had started spouting facts - and insults - combining them in ways no one had as yet thought of, leading to an arrest only hours later.

"How do you _do_ that?" she had asked, perplexed.

"You could do it, too," he had said. "It's all out there. Only you see, but you do not observe." Then he'd vanished without a good-bye.

That night, at home, she had taken out her 'Silmarillion' and looked up the professor's description of young Feanor: 'He was tall, and fair of face, and masterful, his eyes piercingly bright and his hair raven-dark; in the pursuit of all his purposes eager and steadfast.'

How she had longed for someone like that. Someone larger than life. She had always wanted _more_.

A few weeks later Lestrade had called him in again, to a posh location in Kensington. This time it was a dead child - a baby, actually, and the question was if it really was sudden infant death or something darker - and she had felt deeply uncomfortable with his obvious lack of distress. They were all used to dead bodies and wounds and blood and all the horrors their job brought with it, only they weren't, not really. Of course, no one was going to lament and wail about a gang-related shooting, but with a child? Everyone was concerned, and there were dark miens and a lot of swearing going on. Except for him. He'd been cool as ever, no emotion showing on his face. How could anyone be so unfeeling? The case had been closed within twenty-four hours. Something very dark, indeed.

"You really should get paid for your help," she'd suggested.

"I'm not interested in money," he had said with the casual negligence of those who've never really lacked for funds.

And a tiny shoot had broken through the soil and stretched upwards into green sunlight.

After he'd solved that particularly gruesome triple murder - which had not, after all,  been committed by the burglar they had suspected at first – they'd all been in high spirits and she had actually gathered the courage to ask him to join them at the pub later. He had stared down his aristocratic nose at her, obviously surprised, and had answered crisply, "I don't socialise. No offense."

But what she'd heard was, "… with the likes of you." Lestrade had shaken his head after he was gone and had said, kindly, "Forget it, Donovan. Out of your league."

She had been mortified. More so by Lestrade's remark, in fact, than by Holmes' rejection, but of course it wasn't the DI's fault. It was Holmes'. So that was it. Not good enough. Never good enough.

But even if he was posh - how could anyone deem her not good enough? She knew she was beautiful, with her large, dark eyes, fine features and slim, fit body. She was intelligent, too and educated well enough for anyone. She was a policewoman and had made it through the ranks to Detective Sergeant on her own, solely based on her smarts and capabilities. But Mr No-real-job-and-no-need-of-money was out of her league?

That evening she'd popped her 'Pride and Prejudice' DVD into the player - she preferred the 1980s version with Elizabeth Garvie and David Rintoul above all others - and snuggled up on the sofa with a mug of cocoa, letting the love story of poor but witty Lizzie Bennet and proud but shy Fitzwilliam Darcy wash away her anger.

Perhaps, one day, he would acknowledge her for what she was. See her worth. It could happen. She _needed_ it to happen.

It never did.

Sadly, her hurt feelings didn't make her stop _yearning_. Couldn't make her stop _looking_. Admiring. Gosh, but he was a fine specimen of a man.

And the seedling had grown and developed leaves.

Next time she'd seen him she had not been so friendly anymore, but he hadn't even noticed. They hardly counted, any of them, to him. Too dull, too slow, too ordinary. All he ever paid attention to were the dead bodies. Gunshot wounds warranted a slightly bored "Hmmm…"; bodies sliced and diced like kebab an "Interesting!"; Poison? "Fascinating. Send it to the lab!" Never a word about the victims. No compassion, no sympathetic emotion at all had ever been displayed on his arrogant features.

How did Lestrade put up with it? And why, for heaven's sake? He did seem genuinely fond of Holmes. Indulgent. Treating the insufferable git like a spoilt child and seemingly in awe of his so-called deductions. It was true, his team had the highest clearance rate on the force, but that wasn't solely due to his consultant. They did good work, all of them. Even without him.

She'd already begun to think of him as 'the freak', and then one day Anderson, who had just attended a one-week seminar on profiling, had taken her aside and explained to her that Holmes was a psychopath by every definition of the word.

"Look at that checklist," he had said and given her his notes. "See how it all fits?"

"Glib and superficial charm, " she had read aloud, "grandiose estimation of self - ha, you can say that! - need for stimulation, pathological lying, cunning and manipulative, lack of remorse or guilt, shallow emotional responsiveness - indeed! - callousness and lack of empathy - absolutely - parasitic lifestyle, poor behavioural controls, sexual promiscuity, early behaviour problems, lack of realistic long-term goals, impulsivity, irresponsibility, failure to accept responsibility for own actions, many short-term marital relationships, juvenile delinquency, revocation of conditional release, criminal versatility…

"Well, I don't know about the charm. And we have no idea about his private life. But I'm pretty sure he isn't married. Lestrade would have mentioned a wife, don't you think?"

"All right, scratch that. But fifteen out of twenty? Still pretty good, if you ask me."

"But 'parasitic lifestyle'? And how do you know he had 'early behaviour problems' or was a 'juvenile delinquent'?"

"Well, he sure doesn't make any money with the Met, does he now? So, what does he live on? And regarding the juvenile delinquency I heard from Stratton before he retired that Lestrade had arrested him for use and possession once. And even if he doesn't display all the traits _yet_ , I'm sure he will given time and opportunity. He _will_ cross the line, Sally, be sure of it."

The seedling had grown into an adult plant now, with many leaves and offshoots.

Later that year she'd taken up with Anderson, himself tall, dark and handsome in a way, not exactly elf prince material and married to boot, but 'in her league', for all she knows. But she had never stopped longing for something better. Someone poised and self-assured, quick-witted and able to parry each of her insults with one of his own. So sarcastic, so… superior.

When the freak had turned up with that doctor fellow in tow for the first time, she'd been totally taken aback. She had never seen him in anyone's company before. He didn't do company. He'd said so himself. And she had been extra flippant to let the doctor know right from the start how little they valued his companion. Which had led to the freak exposing her relationship with Anderson. Even if none of their colleagues had been in ear shot, how did he dare threaten them that way?

And then Lestrade had let both of them - civilians! - traipse around their crime scene. Anderson had been livid.

She had even gone so far as to warn the doctor, telling him to stay away from the psychopath. But did he listen? Of course not. Totally beguiled. Not even the disclosure that the freak was an addict - a junkie - later that night during the drugs bust had turned him off.

A few months later Dr. Watson had still been around and trailing after the freak. How was that a job for an adult man? Running after your crazy flat mate solving crimes as a hobby? How could they afford it? And really, what was it with those two? Were they… a couple? Was that why the freak had never given her a second glance? The way Watson looked at him… Full of admiration and genuine affection, infatuated even.

Was that what she had looked like to everyone else? Had she made a complete fool of herself?

Buds had developed on the plant, tiny at first, but with promise.

But finally, there had come a time when the freak had made a mistake and Anderson and she had been proven right. It was not humanly possible for anyone to discover the kidnapped children's whereabouts just from a footprint. And then the little girl had screamed at the mere sight of him. Lestrade hadn't wanted to listen to them at first. But they had pressured him into going with them to the Chief Superintendent. And then their fondest wish had come true: a chance to be rid of the freak once and for all. She had been witness when they handcuffed him and marched him roughly down the stairs.

"Told you so the first time we met," she had said to the doctor. "Solving crimes won’t be enough. One day he’ll cross the line."

Even then he didn't want to believe it. He'd broken the Chief Superintendent's nose instead.

How she had been looking forward to seeing the freak stand accused of all his crimes, convicted and imprisoned, finally brought low and humiliated! She had imagined visiting him in Pentonville: he would be behind bars, in prison garb.

"Not so haughty now without your bespoke tailoring, huh?" she would have said. "I'm sure they've got a use for that pretty mouth of yours other than spouting insults."

It had been a short-lived fantasy.

And the buds, full and plump now, had burst open, revealing poisonous, neon-coloured blooms.

After the freak has taken off with his friend – hostage, yeah, my arse – they had only pursued him for a few hours, when the order came from up on high that they were all being pulled to assist in Croydon post-haste, and not to forget the combat gear. For there were riots going on.

On-site there were a few elderly cars burning here and there, but most of the fires were in oil drums, and most of the shattered windows belonged to shops which were closed down anyway. The rioters seemed to be more interested in playing cat and mouse than in actual rioting, and so they chased after hooded figures for most of the night and had little to show for it in the morning.

When they returned to the Yard midmorning for a cuppa and the inevitable reports, Anderson was standing at the door to Lestrade's office with a face that wasn't sure which expression it was supposed to show and THE SUN under his arm.

"Have you heard?" he asked. But of course they hadn't and so he went on, "The freak. He's dead. Jumped off Bart's. Here's why," and presented them with the headline 'SHERLOCK HOLMES A FAKE!'

Lestrade grabbed the paper and sank heavily into his chair, spreading the sheets and starting to read. "God, no," he said and buried his face in his hands. When he looked up again he had aged ten years and his eyes were hollow.

"I don't believe it," he said. "He wouldn't. It can't… Are you sure?"

Anderson nodded and shifted uncomfortably. "It's official. There were witnesses. His friend even saw it. The idiot jumped right in front of him, can you imagine?"

"Show me the report!" Lestrade demanded and Anderson hurried off to fetch it.

She was so shocked at first - the freak committed suicide? Does that mean he was human, after all? - that she wasn't sure how she felt about it right away, but satisfaction settled in pretty soon.

"But don't you see," she said, reading Kitty Reilly's article for herself, "that proves it! He was found out and couldn't stand the heat! It must be true. Why would he off himself, if it wasn't?"

The flowers' venomous perfume enveloped her and it was a heady scent.

They found traces of blood up on the roof of Bart's that didn't match the freak's - so whose was it? Lestrade went down to the morgue and demanded to see the body, but it had already been identified by Holmes' brother and was still being processed and even he didn't have the nerve to witness _that_.

So, he had a brother. She had never considered the possibility of the freak having a family. Parents and siblings who would probably mourn him.

Cause of death: crushed skull, multiple broken bones, internal bleeding, etc. Must have been over in seconds. All that hauteur gone in a big SPLAT on the pavement.

"I wonder how you can sleep at night, Donovan," Lestrade says on his last day when he comes out of the Chief Super's office and starts packing his things. He looks at her as if he doesn't know her at all, after three years of shared work and bad coffee and night shifts and chilling out at the pub after a successful investigation.

John Watson's grim and hostile when he's summoned for questioning, but he's only too willing to let them have whatever proof he can find for Holmes' whereabouts during the time they lived and worked together. The charges against him for hitting the Superintendent are withdrawn - directive from the Home Office via the PR department.

They have Kitty Reilly in, who's convinced that Holmes killed Brook after a confrontation in her flat. But the freak was on the run that night, so where did he leave the body? And even if the blood on the roof was Brook's, there's still no body to compare it to. So what happened there before Holmes jumped?

Kitty gives them her background material, proof that Brook was an actor, copy of his birth certificate and such. But the show he claimed to be on was cancelled after only one season and no one working on it remembers him. The DVDs are of professional quality, but they don't match the format of the show, which has never been released on DVD anyway, and the only copies they have of it are private recordings. No friends or relatives of Richard Brook are to be found, not even after THE SUN offers a five-digit reward for new information.

A few days after the suicide, Interpol contacts them and demands a video conference. There's a French official named Renault, who in heavily accented but otherwise perfect English demands to know if the press coverage is a hoax or if they are doing an undercover operation? Surely they know that Mr Holmes has cooperated with Interpol and to great success?

They had no idea.

"And we 'ad 'oped to consult with Mr 'olmes on a case of cannibalism crossing several European borders that we cannot make any sense of. We are… perplexed. So this is really disturbing."

They agree.

"Surely you know that Mr 'olmes 'olds the Grand-croix de la Légion d'Honneur? Youngest person ever to be awarded this 'onour. Non?"

They are baffled.

"I cannot talk about the case because it is classified. But the stock market in France would 'ave collapsed. Can you imagine that? Riots in the streets! The government toppled! A major economic and political crisis! Consequences for the 'ole of Europe! And then 'e didn't even want the medal! Our Ambassadeur had to cast it into his letterbox! Does that not strike you as curious when 'e was just an attention-seeker according to your press?

They have no answer to that.

"But then the English newspapers 'ave always 'ad a reputation for being exceptionally vicious."

Well, he's right in that respect…

"It is a great loss. Madame, messieurs." And he switches off.

They look at each other, feeling uncomfortable for the first time. But that's the French for you. Excitable, over the top. It has no bearing on their case. Not really.

They are six weeks into the revisions when they have to admit that nothing adds up. Okay, so yeah, in a few cases there's room for doubt. He could have engineered these. But some are overlapping and even Sherlock Holmes could not have been in two or three places at the same time. The Home Office is cooperative for once and even efficient, and they get hours and hours of CCTV footage showing him moving around London, so distinctive a figure you can't miss or confuse him, all with time stamps and above all doubt.

At the same time they're getting calls and e-mails and letters telling them about cases they didn't know about. Private investigations he had taken on and never mentioned anywhere. There are people from all stations of life, from a member of the House of Lords to a teenaged mother living on the dole in Wales, claiming that he helped them. Some detail exactly what he did for them, others remain vague, referring only to 'private or family matters'.

So, they've found his source of income. But who's to say that he couldn't have solved a few small, private cases? Doesn't mean they're wrong that he instigated the others, the prominent ones.

Two months into the revision they even have a letter from the bloody Vatican! Cream-coloured, heavy stationery with a red wax seal – and who the hell seals letters in this day and age? - hand-delivered by the Apostolic Nuncio to England, replete in black and purple robes with bodyguards and a black limousine. Apparently the freak solved a case of art theft for the Holy See.

"Dear Sirs," the letter says. "It is with great sorrow that We have learned of the death of a young gentleman named Sherlock Holmes as reported by several English newspapers available in our country. And although Our faith strongly disapproves of the concept of taking one's own life, We cannot but speak Our belief that he may have fallen prey to machinations unknown to Us and therefore will spare further judgment unto the day his death and its circumstances have been fully investigated and clarified.

"In the meantime We wish to be heard as a character witness. We have had reason to engage Mr Sherlock Holmes' considerable talents in a matter of great importance involving the vanishing of several priceless cameos from Our gallery. The matter was solved in very short time to Our complete satisfaction. No payment was accepted except reimbursement for travel expenses. Confidentiality was preserved as requested.

"And although the young gentleman did not count among Our most reverent visitors We have nevertheless gained a most positive impression of his mental faculties as well as of his bearing as a representative of your nation. In short, We cannot believe the reported rumours that Mr Holmes was a fraud who committed the crimes he subsequently solved himself. In Our aforementioned case this would have been entirely impossible.

"We will remember him in Our prayers and herewith invoke upon you and your associates the wisdom and judgment of our Lord Jesus Christ."

This is getting very strange now. But it's the Roman Catholic Church. How far can you trust such a medieval institution? The pope is an old man. Probably delusional.

And then there's the graffiti. It's all over London. One or two pieces at first, near Baker Street, then more and more are springing up everywhere.

'I believe in Sherlock Holmes.'

'We fight John Watson's war.'

'He was not a fraud.'

'Moriarty was real.'

Some are just the words, some also show his silhouette or even his portrait. The one opposite Lestrade's - her - window at the Yard simply says 'Sherlock' in stark yellow flanked by two dark wings. No matter how often they have it removed - washed off or painted over – it's back the next day. The graffiti follows her home from work, accompanies her when she goes shopping, trails her to the pub. There's no escape.

When she talks to her sister one night, Ruthie tells her that Kevin, her son, an adorable, bright boy of ten, is having difficulties at school. "They're calling him names," she says. "You see, he's so much brighter than the other children and with his new specs he looks like a little scientist. And they're calling him 'freak' and such. I tell him, of course, he mustn't let it get to him. Kids can be so cruel. When you show them that it hurts you, it'll only get worse."

When she called him 'freak' to his face the first time, he only cocked an eyebrow at her. Did she hurt him then? she wonders. Later it had become vernacular, others following her lead. Could it be that his lack of emotion was a method of self-preservation? But no, that would mean that he was human after all. He was a psychopath.

Six months in, the HRG closes the revision with a ninety-five percent negative result. Only with three or four of the cases is there a slight possibility of Holmes having been the perpetrator, and even these are not airtight. They have no idea what to do.

Press coverage has finally died down, thank God. Release a statement now and let it all flare up again? If Holmes wasn't a fake, they won't look quite as stupid after all the flak they've received for involving him in the first place. But they arrested him. Based on 'evidence' which hasn't withstood investigation. And then he died. Killed himself because of it. They'll look bad either way.

They've given up on ever finding Richard Brook. Oh, there's still a search warrant out for him, 'wanted to testify' and all that, but how likely is it that he will turn up now after they've turned every bloody stone in London searching for him?

Lestrade will probably be re-instated. Human Resources and the PR department are in conference for days to find a way to limit the damage. He doesn't answer her phone calls.

Anderson just shrugs and tells her to let it rest and be glad they're rid of the freak. They can do their jobs in peace now without anyone showing them up.

And she thinks, if he had shown her - them - some respect…

If he had just once shown some emotion…

If he had been less arrogant…

It's all his fault, and his alone. Everyone gets what they deserve. That's life, isn't it. It wasn't her. She's a good person, a good police officer. It's not her fault. None of it.

But when she lies awake at night, staring into the darkness with burning eyes and sleep's elusive, even when she's dog tired, she starts wondering: "Were we wrong? Did we hound an innocent man to his death? Was it all my fault? - Dear God, what have I done?"

And something small and mean inside her withers and dies.


	2. Mike Stamford

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta and Brit-picking by SwissMiss. Thank you for your great work!

When Mike Stamford read the paper that morning the headline said 'SHERLOCK HOLMES A FAKE' and he snorted coffee all over himself and had to go change his shirt and tie. The 'big reveal' had been announced the day before, but he hadn't seriously thought something like this was going to happen. How could he? He had rather thought there would be a sordid article about the personal relationship between Sherlock and John, as there had been hints and speculations about them all over the place in recent weeks. He had reckoned to get a good laugh out of it and material to tease John with when next he saw him. But this?  
  
Lately the press had been all over Sherlock, heaping accolades and praise on him, calling him 'boffin' and 'internet phenomenon', claiming he could do what Scotland Yard could not. He had become quite the celebrity, and photographs of him in the hated hat were as common as the busty blondes on page three. Now this. Nonsense. That's what it was.  
  
Mike grabbed his phone from the bedside table, still fighting with his tie, and called John, but it went directly to voice mail. Had to try later then. He returned to the kitchen and finished his breakfast, kissed his wife and hurried to work.  
  
Crossing Giltspur Street, he noticed a sleek dark car with tinted windows emerging from the main gateway of Bart's. Right around the corner he saw Porter, the maintenance man, hosing down the pavement, rivulets of red flowing down into the gutter.  
  
"Sad, isn't it?" Porter said.  
  
"Morning!" Mike said cheerfully. "What's sad then?"  
  
"Haven't you heard?"  
  
"No, what?"  
  
"Sherlock Holmes's dead. Took a swan dive from the roof this morning, right when I started my shift." He made a vague gesture skywards.  
  
Mike stared at him.  
  
"'Tis true! Saw it with mine own eyes when they brought him in. In the morgue now. Sodding mess."  
  
It wasn't quite clear whether he meant the blood on the pavement or the situation as a whole. Mike watched the red wash flow into the gutter – blood, he realised then, Sherlock's? – and his stomach heaved. He ran inside.  
  
"Molly!" he called, barging into the front room of the morgue. She emerged from the main room, carefully closing the door behind her.  
  
"Is it true? It can't be. Tell me it isn't."  
  
She smiled a sad little smile and just nodded her head. "His brother's just been in and identified him."  
  
"Does John know?" Mike asked, horrified.  
  
"Yes," Molly whispered. "He saw it happen." Her eyes glittered with unshed tears and she knuckled at them clumsily.  
  
"Jesus Christ," Mike said and sunk down on a lab stool.  
  
To this day he could not say what had possessed him to introduce John to Sherlock. All he had heard was "who would want _me_ for a flatmate", twice in one day, and he had responded like Pavlov's poodle, bringing the two of them together. It shouldn't have worked so well, different as they were. But the two had hit it off right from the start - he had never seen a faster friendship. From the get-go John's blog had been all about Sherlock. And it had filled Mike with a quiet satisfaction to see the silent, aggressive man John had become turn back into his more affable self.  
  
When they had studied together at Bart's, John had been open and laid-back, the sort of guy you wanted to have around at parties, football games or a night out pub crawling. The man who came back from Afghanistan, limping along on his cane, was different, snapping at him belligerently, "I'm not the John Watson you knew". Mike had been taken aback, but wanted to help nonetheless. So, when John had mentioned not being able to afford accommodations in London on his army pension and Mike had advised him to look for a flat share, that morning's conversation with Sherlock had popped into his mind.  
  
Mike had known Sherlock for four or five years, having first made his acquaintance when one day an email had shown up in his inbox which read:  
  
"Found this article of yours  
  
'Alteration of Totipotent Plant Cells by Insertion of Specific Foreign Genes and Reverse Transcriptase from RNA Tumor Viruses', published in 'Botanical Studies' (2004) 48: 445-451  
  
in 'Annales de Phytopathologie' (2006) 35: 235-243 without citation of your name. Would intervene if I were you.  
  
Good work, by the way.  
  
SH"  
  
He had checked the issue and found an article in French, in which he wasn't fluent enough to decide if he had really been plagiarised. Further emails were exchanged, which had led to a meeting with Sherlock Holmes, a tall young man in a sharp suit, who presented him with a translation of the article in question, which indeed turned out to be an uncited copy of his own work.  
  
Mike was a teacher, and he knew intelligence when he saw it. They had talked a bit, and Mike had found to his surprise that the young fellow had been to Cambridge _and_ Oxford, reading biology and chemistry as well as languages, but had left both universities without any degree. Under which circumstances, Holmes didn't say, and Mike didn't want to pry. Apparently he was working as a private detective now, or rather, as he called it, a 'consulting detective', but didn't have a lot of cases yet. By the end of the meeting Mike had asked the chap if he would be interested in helping him with his research and perhaps setting up tests for his students and so on.  
  
"Not much money involved, I'm afraid," he had warned.  
  
Sherlock had shrugged. "Not my main concern anyway. But perhaps I could borrow some of your equipment sometime?"  
  
Sherlock was punctual, meticulous and reliable. Except on the days he wasn't. Sometimes Mike would receive a text simply stating 'Case', which meant Sherlock wouldn't show up for a day or a week, only to return either in high spirits with sparkling eyes or looking worse for wear and taciturn. These absences disconcerted Mike sometimes, but there was nothing to be done about them and so he just went along – after all, Sherlock didn't charge for his services. All he asked was the use of lab space and equipment in return.  
  
Sherlock was also brilliant, inventive and analytical, able to see through everyone and everything, could tell you who cheated on their papers and how, and was able to read and write scientific texts in at least six different languages. He even published some papers of his own - though Mike had no idea whether an in-depth chemical analysis of two hundred and forty-three different varieties of tobacco ash was really something anybody was dying to know. But he supposed it must be connected to Sherlock's line of work.  
  
With time his 'cases' became more frequent and Sherlock had less and less spare time to assist Mike. But as he was still game to help whenever he could and translated articles for him, Mike didn't mind.  
  
They never became close friends. Sherlock was very private and guarded, not the type to take to the pub and share a pint with after work. They never talked much about private matters, but they respected each other, and having Sherlock's respect when he respected hardly anyone else was something Mike felt quite proud of.  
  
Then one morning Sherlock mentioned that his landlord had given him notice and he would be moving away from Montague Street to new accommodations in Baker Street.  
  
"It's a bit too large for me - two bedrooms - and therefore too expensive, but it's really nice," he had said.  
  
"Well then, pin a note on the notice board to try and find a flatmate to share the rent," Mike had suggested. "One of the assistants or students might be interested."  
  
"Huh. I'm probably a difficult man to find a flatmate for," Sherlock had said.  
  
Mike couldn't deny that. Most of Mike's colleagues didn't get along too well with Sherlock, it had turned out. Well, the number of people who actually liked being told their approach was unoriginal and their argumentation lacked elegance, would necessarily be fairly small, truth be told.  
  
The female staff was divided between those who wanted to mother him (the over fifty crowd) and those who swooned about his 'dark locks' and 'mesmerising eyes' (the rest). But it had soon become apparent that he couldn't care less about mince pies and muffins left on his desk or more or less blatant attempts at flirting, so the attention had cooled down again pretty soon.  
  
And then there was Molly Hooper, one of the pathologists working at Bart's, who had been helplessly in love with Sherlock from the time they had first been introduced.  
  
"Sherlock has solved the triple murder case," she would proudly tell Mike. Or, "Oleander poisoning! I would never have known to look for oleandrigenin!"  
  
Molly! he thought, startled out of his fleeting reminiscences by her snivelling.  
  
"Dear God, Molly, how are you?" Mike asked. "I know you lo- , you li- , you were very fond of him. How are you keeping up?"  
  
"I'm fine, Mike. Really. I am…" she said and burst into tears.  
  
"There, there," he said feeling absolutely helpless, patting her shoulder.  
  
He couldn't believe it. Sherlock was… had been… invincible. London's very own dark knight. But unlike all those blokes in tights and capes Mike had liked to read about as a kid, Sherlock had been the real thing. A lightning bolt of an intellect and far stronger than his slender frame let on. How could all that… brilliance… be wiped out so suddenly? How could he have done something so out of character? It made no sense. He couldn't have been a fake. Mike _knew_ he wasn't. John knew.  
  
"But… why?" he asked. "He wouldn't. Not because of a stupid newspaper article."  
  
"He was arrested yesterday for the abduction of those kids," Molly said, wiping her eyes.  
  
"But… he's the one who's found them!" Mike protested.  
  
"Yes, but they said he could only find them if he was the one who abducted them in the first place. And then he took John hostage -"  
  
"What?!"  
  
"- and they fled together and…"  
  
"Molly, where's John now?" he asked.  
  
"I… don't know," she said, stifling her sobs. "He didn't come in with… the body."  
  
"We have to find him," Mike said.  
  
There was something fishy going on and he had to get to the bottom of it. The first thing was to find John. He shouldn't be alone at a time like this. And then, together, they could find out what really happened. The Sherlock Holmes he knew would never have taken his own life.  
  
The Sherlock he knew could tell you your whole life story from one look. The Sherlock he knew caught serial killers, unveiled conspiracies and grappled with criminal masterminds. And then sat down and translated a scientific text from Chinese. Why the brightest mind Mike had ever known preferred to solve crimes instead of pursuing a career in science, Mike had no idea. But he knew that they were all the safer for it. And no one who had ever seen Sherlock hunched over a microscope for hours, sometimes all through the night, like Mike had often enough, could doubt that he was dedicated to his work.  
  
How many people had he helped? Like that professor from Hungary, Mrs Balázs, who had been blackmailed by a student into letting him pass his exams or he would tell everyone they were having an affair, which very likely would have cost her her work permit and her career? When the most she had been culpable of was a little ill-advised flirting, which was probably due to the fact she didn't fully understand all the nuances of a foreign language. Sherlock had erased the slightly dodgy emails the student held against her from his computer and then had talked with the man, who had promptly dropped out. All with minimal fuss and without pay or recognition.  
  
And they said that man was an attention seeker and a fake? All the attention had come from John's blog. Sherlock had done nothing wrong. Mike would not let his reputation be smeared now that he was gone. And he would not leave Sherlock's friends to grieve alone.  
  
Something had to be done. Right now he didn't know what. They had to get together and do some brainstorming. They would come up with something. Some plan to clear Sherlock's name. It was the least he could do. 

  



	3. Sebastian Wilkes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta and Brit-picking by SwissMiss - thank you, dear!

When Sebastian glimpsed the headline 'SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS' in THE SUN lying on his PA's desk, he grabbed the paper and closed himself in his office. He hadn't read yesterday's 'big reveal', THE SUN not being on his daily 'must read'-list, but at least half a dozen people had mentioned it to him, asking if 'that Holmes guy' had faked the break-in last year and if he intended to take action. Sebastian had waved them all off.

Now he read that Sherlock had taken his own life after being found out to be a fake and a criminal. He had - apparently - hired an actor to play the role of Moriarty, whom he had paid to take the fall for the spectacular break-ins to the Tower, the Bank of England and Pentonville he had engineered earlier this year. Then he had blackmailed the jury members to acquit him. All the cases he had worked on with Scotland Yard were to be reviewed.

Had he also employed the Chinese acrobat to break into Shad Sanderson? And to kill Eddie van Coen? Sebastian shook his head. Unlikely. How could he have known that Sebastian would call him? They had not seen each other in eight years, had had no contact whatsoever since uni.

An unpleasant thought lanced through him: had he told anyone that Sherlock was a personal acquaintance of his when he had hired him? As far as he could remember he hadn't. And it hadn't come up in any conversations overheared by others except his PA. Who would keep quiet if she wanted to keep her job. So, no uncomfortable questions by the Board of Directors to be expected, thank God. If anyone should ask, he could always point to the internet, where Sherlock's website was the first to appear when you googled 'detective'. He heaved a relieved breath.

Sebastian had always followed Sherlock's career. More closely lately when he appeared in the news so often. But even before that he had done a Google search at least once or twice a year and of course found Sherlock's website as soon as it went online. 'The Science of Deduction'. Dear God, could you get any more pompous? But that was Sherlock Holmes for you.

He had first met Sherlock at Oxford, in the cafeteria of the junior common room of Balliol College, to be specific, where he'd been sitting alone at a table in the corner, his back to the wall, the books piled up in front of him providing a barrier behind which he sheltered. All Sebastian could see was a shock of dark curls, a coffee mug and a notebook in which a pale elegant hand made rapid notations.

"Who's that then?" he had asked Renny Whitcomb, both of them joining the queue for the coffee machine.

"Oh, that's Holmes. Just transferred from Cambridge," Renny had said. "Total asshole. Big scandal. Copied his prof's work or something. No one knows the details."

"Why would they take him on here, if he did that?" Sebastian had wondered out loud.

"Old family. Moneyed, too. The brother's something in government. You know how it is. Have the connections, know the right people, hush-up and move on." Renny had sounded bitter.

"Hm," Sebastian had said. Like Renny he was the first of his family to attend an elite university.

"Better leave him alone. No one likes him anyway."

"Why not? What courses does he take?"

"As I said, complete asshole. Talks to no one. Or, when he does, says something totally embarrassing. Biological sciences and chemistry or something, I think. Why are you interested?"

"Don't know," Sebastian had lied. "Here, it's our turn for the coffee."

He had taken economics and management as well as mathematics, wanting to go into banking – that was where the money was – and had gone out of his way forging the right connections. His father had been a doctor with the NHS and, while respectable, would never have been able to afford the kind of life Sebastian envisioned for himself. 'Have the connections, know the right people', as Renny had said. That was the way the game was played and Sebastian intended to be a player.

Holmes had seemed a likely candidate for his list of people to be pursued. Old family, money, government connections. Those were the kind of friends Sebastian was looking for. Unliked and friendless Holmes would be an easy target for Sebastian's charms. Everyone needed a friend, right?

It wasn't difficult to find out more about Holmes. Sherlock. In fact, they shared a maths course - although Sherlock seldom turned up. Therefore, when Sebastian found him sitting alone in the cafeteria the next time, he took a seat right next to him, saying, "Hey, mind if I sit here?" Sherlock looked up and Sebastian gifted him with a broad friendly smile.

"I've missed you. You're in Doyle's course, too, aren't you? Haven't seen you in a while. Everything all right?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" Sherlock said, giving him a guarded look.

Sebastian kept smiling. "Just wondered why you didn't turn up anymore. Need help with something?"

Sherlock snorted. "Doyle's an idiot." He returned to his notes, clearly dismissing Sebastian as the same.

"Really? I thought he's quite good. What do you do then? Who's not an idiot?"

Sherlock put down his pen. "In the math's department? Willows seems to be okay."

"Wow, that's pretty advanced stuff - he does only postgraduate courses," Sebastian said, honestly impressed. "Perhaps _you_ should help _me_."

"What with?" Sherlock asked. "I'm not continuing with his lectures anyway, at least not on a regular basis. Maths are boring."

"Um," Sebastian said. "And here I thought I could borrow your course work. What do you find interesting?"

As it turned out Sherlock found almost everything interesting - maths, physics, biology, chemistry, computer sciences, languages - until he had enough of it and it became absolutely boring effective immediately. He didn't have a straight programme of study or a fixed goal in mind; although his application had been for maths and biology, instead he fluttered from this lecture to that one like an intellectual butterfly, sipping only the finest and most rarefied of nectars. How he was able to afford this time- and moneywise was beyond Sebastian's understanding. Exceptions were made for especially gifted students, he knew - and this said a lot in a place where almost everyone was gifted - but no one made a fuss about Sherlock, unlike the other few genius-level students.

For a while Sherlock had been immensely interested in computer sciences until one day he'd decided that no one present could teach him anything new. Then he'd hacked the uni's main computer system and it was only thanks to his big brother - scary guy! - that he wasn't expelled at once. Family connections, you just couldn't beat them.

On a personal level Sebastian never got a hold of him. Try as he might he never got officially introduced to the brother, never got invited to the family home and was never counted 'a friend'. His charm wasn't working on Sherlock and his only comfort was that no one else's was either. Not that there were many who kept trying after the first rebuttal. The only one who could claim to be on a bit more intimate terms with Sherlock was perhaps Reginald Musgrave, another loner and candidate on Sebastian's list. Snooping over his shoulder, Sebastian had been able to discern that Sherlock was in regular email contact with someone from Cambridge named Victor, but other than that he seemed to have no social contacts. And even those emails ceased after the second end of term holidays.

"Look," Sherlock had said one day when Sebastian had badgered him again to introduce him to the members of his fencing club, "I'm not what you want. I can't help you reaching your goals."

"What do you think _are_ my goals?" Sebastian had asked him, quite baffled.

Sherlock had arched an eyebrow at him and said, "You have a middle class background and are striving for more. You're the first of your family to attend a university like this. Your father has a respectable job - doctor, I'd say - but it's not paying much. You want to be more regarding social class. That's why you're trying to make contacts with as many people you see as 'upper class' as possible, thinking it will help you in your career."

Sebastian had gaped at him, he remembered.

"How can you bloody know that about me?"

"Your clothes," Sherlock had said, looking smug. "Your wardrobe is limited, but you're wearing only expensive brands. It's all a bit flashy though, displaying labels very prominently - like that!" He had waved a careless hand at the crocodile on Sebastian's shirt. "And they're all rather new, not frequently laundered, so bought specially for here. You take very good care of them and get angry when you make a mess, like last week when you spilt your coffee. If you were coming from money you wouldn't care that much. On the other hand your accent tells me that you come from an educated background, so your father has studied as well, but not here, because then you would have met the sons of former mates of his, which you haven't. All your acquaintances are as new as your clothes."

"What the fuck!"

"You asked," Sherlock had said, unconcerned. "And yes, mine is an old family, and yes, there's a bit of money and my brother's a civil servant. But I'm not the heir, so I won't have a lot of that money and I don't get along with my brother. I'm not very social, as you might have noticed by now, which is why an association with me won't enhance your popularity. So, why bother?"

Just about recovered, Sebastian had answered, "Perhaps that's not the only thing I'm interested in," and had grinned at him suggestively.

"And that's not going to happen either," Sherlock had said and, grabbing his books, had fled the scene.

Still, Sebastian had never stopped watching him fence as long as they both stayed at Oxford.

Then he had met Michael, who was the son of an earl - an impoverished earl, but still - and his later years at uni had been rather happy.

The last personal contact with Sherlock had been when Sebastian had announced his engagement to Michael's sister, the honourable Philippa.

"But… you're sleeping with Michael!" Sherlock had blurted out. Heads turned in their direction, and there were some whispers.

"Shut the fuck up and piss off!" had been the last Sebastian had said to Sherlock before he saw him again eight years later.

Shortly thereafter Sherlock had been dismissed without having finished any of his courses because of a drug offence and Sebastian had not been sad to see him leave.

He had finished his education with excellent results, had found a high-paying job in the city and had married Philippa.

He was still married to Pippa, and still very much in love with her title - "please meet my wife, Lady Philippa" - and her connections, while she had an ongoing love-affair with Versace, Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik, so it was a successful marriage all around. They owned an expensive double-storey flat in Chelsea and had the ancestral pile - where poor hapless Michael tried to make a living as an ecological farmer - for the weekends. In short, he lived the life he had always dreamt of, whereas his poor overworked father had succumbed to a heart-attack at fifty-eight, still paying for his son's expensive education.

Sebastian had always known that banking was the way to go for him. As head trader he was under a lot of stress, yes, but juggling with other people's money could be fun, too. And if he drank too much and did a line of coke or three now and then - who cared?

Meanwhile Sherlock, the poor sod, had become a private detective. Could you imagine that? All that potential wasted on a menial job like that. He was hardly better than the security 'officers' at the bank, who in turn were hardly better than caretakers. There couldn't be much money involved shadowing unfaithful spouses and keeping teenagers from shop-lifting. Oh, Sebastian could hardly wait to rub it in while he composed his fake-jovial email: "Hey, buddy…".

But when Sherlock had turned up, Sebastian found that life had not taught him modesty. He was even taller now, still very slender - he would visit the gym more regularly, Sebastian had promised himself - his dark curls longer and fuller, perfectly coiffed, and he was wearing a very sophisticated suit. In short, he didn't look as if he was short of money. Still as graceful as in his youth, he now exuded control and confidence, displaying an understated elegance that Sebastian found hard to top.

Which had made it even sweeter humiliating him in front of his associate - "my friend," Sherlock had said somewhat proudly; "colleague," the grim-faced little man had corrected him with a sharp look - by referring to their student years and how everyone had hated him. "Oh, the tales I could tell!" his grin had said. And Sherlock had looked suitably chagrined, perhaps even hurt, for a second.

Sebastian didn't find it hard to believe that Sherlock had offed himself. He had always been too proud for his own good. And exposed as a fraud - what else could he have done? He didn't waste a thought about the veracity of the allegations in THE SUN. Where there was light, there necessarily had to be shadow. Everyone had their little secrets and if Sherlock had found it necessary to crank up his business by inventing an archenemy mastercriminal - well, all's fair in war and business, right? But even clever advertising could blow up in your face.

The main thing now was to distance himself from such shenanigans. As long as no one could prove an association between himself and Sherlock, Sebastian wouldn't take a stance. Some things were best kept silent.

All he was left with were the memories of a proud and lonely boy, graceful as a ballet dancer, wielding the blades of his intellect and his foil with equal finesse. A man he had never been allowed to call his friend, let alone anything else, and now never would.

Gone.

Sebastian shook his head and dropped the newspaper into the bin under his desk. The weather forecast looked rather good. He was quite looking forward to the weekend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Miller, the SAS-man from 'The Diogenes Club', will tell what really happened when Mycroft spirited Sherlock away to their family home in the country to clean him up cold turkey-style...


	4. Anderson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A year ago upon the day when I last updated this story I promised a next chapter with Miller, the SAS guy from the Diogenes Club, telling the story of Sherlock's early years and drug addiction. And I meant it. There were also chapters about Lestrade and his first meeting with Sherlock, Henry Knight and his reaction to the news of Sherlock's suicide and one about Kitty Riley and her attempts to be a serious investigative journalist (a total failure). All of these are partly written, some nearly finished. But somehow I just lost my drive. Zero comments is a bit discouraging - even for me who's not exactly spoilt.
> 
> But the last chapter, my favourite, about Anderson was practically done. So I decided to polish that up and post it today. It's not betaed, so if anyone still wants to read this, please do so at your own discretion!

Anderson was very glad to be rid of the freak. He had always known that he's no Gil Grissom, but he _is_ a decent CSI and no one's going to tell him otherwise these days. What a relief.

What has always unnerved him about that Holmes character is this: He didn't shed. Anderson was already with Lestrade when Holmes had turned up for the first time and he could hardly believe it when the DI had let that civilian wander onto the crime scene without a protective suit.

"You _have_ to wear one of these!" he'd insisted pushing the light blue package containing the wrapped suit at him. But Holmes had just raised one lazy eye brow and wandered off without to contaminate Anderson's crime scene. At least he wore surgical gloves.

"Sir!" Anderson had turned to Lestrade in protest.

"Ah, just get samples off him to exclude him later," Lestrade had advised him.

So he'd gnashed his teeth and had taken samples of Holmes coat, suit, shoes and so on. He had had a moment of real satisfaction viciously ripping out a strand of dark curly hair.

The surprise had come when he had compared the samples to the material taken from the crime scene: Nothing matched. Which was impossible. Everyone shed. That's why protective suits had been invented in the first place and were mandatory now. Hair, lashes, skin cells, fluff, dust, lint, tiny strands of fibre from your clothing, mud from your shoes – one couldn't avoid it. That is normal people couldn't. Holmes apparently could.

Anderson still had Holmes' samples in his kit. Never a match. None during all the years the freak had worked with Lestrade. It just wasn't natural. It was uncanny. Inhuman. Spooky. As if he was a vampire. He _did_ have a reflection in a mirror, though. Anderson had checked that.

When Sally Donovan had joined their team, she had fallen for the freak at first. Well, he wasn't exactly bad looking, Anderson supposed, if you liked that sort of posh pompous look. But Sally had come around at last.

He had not been with Lestrade and Sally when they had gone to arrest Holmes, although he would have given a year of his life to see how they put handcuffs on him. He had lurked around Lestrade's office to watch when he was brought in, though. But then Sally had phoned to tell him that the freak had made a run for it, taking Watson hostage, and they were after him now. Also, could he come and supervise the search at 221B as soon as the warrant was through? He wouldn't have missed that opportunity for the world, he told her.

They had taken every scrap of paper, every petri dish and every test tube from the flat. A real human skull, a violin, a rather high end microscope and a few odd knick-knacks. As well as all the freak's wardrobe.

He had always wondered how a private detective who didn't even get paid could afford such costly clothes? The constant taxi rides? His income must have been of criminal origin. There was no other explanation.

All of that stuff was to be examined, probed, scanned, tested and, sadly, very likely to be destroyed in the process. Such a shame. But Sherlock Holmes had no need of it anymore where he was going. Anderson had very much hoped for Pentonville.

It had been past midnight before they were finished at the flat and he'd gone home directly after, sending the stuff to the yard with his underlings.

*****

In the morning, while his wife cooked his breakfast, he had watched the news on the telly and learned that the freak had taken a swan dive from St. Bart's Hospital at dawn. He'd finished dressing in a hurry and left home without his breakfast heading directly to the scene.

There had been no police tape, no police presence of any sort, the area around the entrance clear of traffic and eerily calm. Feeble sunlight had lightened his way as he slowly went along the façade looking for evidence. Right at the corner the pavement had been wet, still glistening, and he concluded that it must have been washed down to cleanse it from blood and, likely, brain matter. And right, there in the gutter he had found what he was looking for: little puddles of dark pinkish fluid left over from hosing down the scene. He had quickly got out a pipette and test tube and collected a sample. The last he would ever take of Sherlock Holmes.

A news vendor on the way to the yard had supplied him with THE SUN's latest issue and to his delight the headline told him all he had to know about the reasons for Holmes's suicide. The feeling of deep contentment and peace didn't leave him until Sally and Lestrade came back from their assignment in Croydon.

*****

"Dr. Anderson?" Tibbet said, positively quivering with excitement.

"Yes?" Anderson looked up from the reports awaiting his signature.

"You're not going to believe this, sir," the lab technician said with glee. "The things we took from 221B? The violin? It's a Strad. A real one."

"A Strad…? As in Stradivarius?" Tibbet was right. Anderson didn't believe it.

Tibbet nodded. "Look at this," he said and placed a photo scan on the desk in front of Anderson. "From inside the body. Got it with the laser probe."

The scan showed a patch of paper with smudged writing on it, reading "Ant… Stradi…us fac… 171…"

"Must be a fake," Anderson said.

"Could be stolen," Tibbet answered. "I've searched the internet. Quite a few of them are missing, sir."

"Get a specialist!" Anderson ordered.

*****

"Extraordinary," the gentleman from Beare's murmured, lovingly turning the instrument around. "It's the Leonardo da Vinci! Mr Holmes will be so glad to get it back. I had no idea it had been stolen. Thank God it hasn't been damaged."

"Mr Holmes?" Anderson asked. "He's the owner?"

The portly old gentleman glanced at him over his halfmoon glasses. "Oh, yes. Though technically it belongs to the Holmes estate, which means Mr Mycroft Holmes. He doesn't play though, so Mr Sherlock Holmes has custody of it."

"The Holmes… estate." Anderson said slowly. "You're sure it hasn't been stolen?"

"Well, of course it must have been stolen! How else would it get here?"

"By Sherlock Holmes I mean." Anderson clarified.

"Why would he steal his own violin?"

"Let me get this straight," Anderson said, "you know this violin and you're sure it rightfully belongs to Sherlock Holmes, respectively his… family estate."

"Of course." The expert hugged the violin to his chest. "Dr. Anderson, what's going on?"

"Don't you read the newspapers? Sherlock Holmes was a fraud. A criminal. He committed suicide jumping off the roof of St. Bart's Hospital, because he was exposed. It's all over the TV and tabloids."

"I've been abroad. Just returned from Tokyo yesterday. I haven't had time – What are you telling me? This makes no sense at all. Our company has been entrusted with the maintenance of this instrument for a very long time. Its history is documented. And Mr Holmes is the rightful owner. He's a famous detective, not a criminal. He can't be dead."

"I assure you he is." Anderson said. "Tell me more about the instrument. And the Holmes estate."

The elderly gentleman settled in the nearest chair and mopped his forehead with a snow white handkerchief produced from his coat pocket.

"It began with Claude Joseph Vernet," he started, "French painter, born 1714, died 1789, lived and worked in Rome for about twenty years where he bought the Leonardo da Vinci, which was crafted in 1712, for his English wife, Virginia Parker. The instrument was then inherited by his youngest son, Antoine Charles Vernet, and after him by his son Emile Jean Vernet. Both were painters, too. 

Emile's youngest sister was a bit of an adventuress and it is believed that her daughter, Fleur, was the natural child of Nicolo Paganini. Fleur Vernet became one of the last grandes cocottes of the nineteenth century, said to have had liasons with – among others – Victor Hugo, Franz Liszt and the mad king Louis II of Bavaria. She ended her career by marrying an elderly French aristocrat by the name of Beaujeu.

Her brother Emile's only legitimate descendant, his granddaughter, Josephine Delaroche-Vernet, married Mr Rembert Holmes in 1935 and thus the violin passed into the Holmes estate. Their only son, Siger Holmes, born in 1939, married his second cousin once removed, the infamous Fleur's granddaughter Violet de Beaujeu, a concert violinist. He used to joke that she only married him, because she was after the family Stradivarius.

Siger Holmes was then assassinated on his last post in the diplomatic service in India in 1982. His eldest son and heir, Mycroft Holmes, works in Whitehall. His younger son – born after his father's death – is Sherlock Holmes who now has possession of the Leonardo da Vinci.

Our company has cared for this instrument for the last eighty years, Dr. Anderson."

"I'll be damned." Anderson said.

"What about the Holmes family?" Tibbet asked, looking at the Beare's expert in wide-eyed wonder.

"Oh, country squires. So respectable as to be boring. Queen and country types. Always one member in the crown's service. Though Rembert Holmes was a fine player, too.

"How did you come by this instrument, Dr. Anderson?" the old gentleman asked, hugging the violin even tighter.

"It was taken from Holmes' flat to be investigated in our forensic labs in the course of the investigation of his involvement in several criminal cases." Anderson answered.

"You are not going to do anything nasty to it, are you?" the expert asked, thoroughly horrified. "Like shoot at it or saw it in half or something like that?"

"Well…" Anderson said, thinking the idea not a bad one at all, "he may have hidden something inside…"

The old gentleman jumped up. "Do you have any idea what this instrument is worth, Dr. Anderson?"

"Enlighten me!" Anderson suggested.

"The 'Lady Tennant' was sold for over two million dollars, the 'Hammer' went for three and a half million. This instrument with an unbroken documented history? Although it hasn't been publicly played by a re-known artist... I've always said Mr Holmes could have been a concert violinist. Very fine player. Absolute waste he didn't go that route."

"So, you're telling me Holmes had an instrument that is worth millions?" Anderson asked, dumbfounded.

"Oh yes, Dr. Anderson," the expert said seriously. "And it really shouldn't be here. If you don't mind, I'll take care of it and let Mr Holmes know where to find it. It's due for maintenance anyway."

"I'll be damned." Anderson said again.

The old gentleman gently plucked a few strings, listening intently.

"Oh, yes…" he said quietly. 

"What?" Tibbet asked.

"Well, I can tell you this, gentlemen: Mr Sherlock Holmes is not dead."

"He's not?" Tibbet said.

"How do you get the idea?" Anderson asked. "He committed suicide. There are witnesses."

"The violin. It doesn't mourn him. It sounds distressed, yes, but it isn't weeping."

"Ah, yes." Anderson said calmly. "I see. If you'll sign a receipt here, you can take it with you rightaway, sir. I wouldn't want to deal with the insurance complications anyway."

*****

"D'you think he's really, really dead?" Tibbet asked as soon as the gentleman from Beare's had left them.

"Come on," Anderson said, "you don't believe in uncle Dumbledore's fairytales, do you?"

Tibbet shrugged. "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio…" he quoted.

Anderson snorted. No one came back from the dead. Not even Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it. Thanks everybody for reading and especially those who left me kudos. I very much appreciate it.
> 
>  
> 
> About Claude Joseph Vernet and his offspring: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Claude_Joseph_Vernet
> 
> Beare's does really exist: http://www.beares.com/
> 
> Family matters: http://blog.eogn.com/eastmans_online_genealogy/2011/12/what-is-second-cousin-once-removed.html


	5. Miller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Herein Miller, who was first mentioned in 'The Diogenes Club', tells what happened when Mycroft had Sherlock spirited away to the country to clean him up after he had been found OD-ed in the street by Lestrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally supposed to go before the Anderson chapter, because I always intended to end with Anderson, but it wasn't quite as finished and I had totally lost my drive. Thanks to the lovely readers who made their presence known after 'Anderson', I was able to finish Mr Miller's tale now.

I took the newspaper and smoothed it out on the kitchen counter, then laid it flat in the bottom of my bin. That was where such drivel belonged. 'Suicide of Fake Genius', indeed. Neither was there a suicide, nor a fake whatever. Genius may be. Might very well be. GOD doesn't suffer fools or fakes.

'Take a seat, Miller,' he had said, one morning well over six or seven years ago. 'I have a personal problem you could help me with.'

'Obliged, sir,' I said and sat down. No idea then, what he wanted. No real idea either, who or what he was. I had worked for him - once. Word was he was an up-and-comer - brilliant, ruthless, consultant to the government, MI5, MI6 - his work so secret and little specified that an office had been created specifically for him with the bland and misleading title: 'Statistical Audits'.

'I have a younger brother. Very bright, very… special. He's at St. Mary's now, due to be released today. Found overdosed on heroin and was subsequently arrested and hospitalised three days ago. For reasons that need not be discussed here and now rehab is not an option.

'I would like you to choose two men, one preferably with medical training, and pick him up. Then you are to follow me to this address –' he pushed a card across the table at me, 'and stay with him to clean him up. Be intimidating, be rough. I would like this experience to be as disagreeable as possible. Unpleasant enough to think twice before using again.'

'Sir.'

'I'll work from there, too, as long as it takes, though I dont wish him to see me. You have permission to discipline him, if necessary, but do not injure him. And watch out for his hands. He plays the violin.'

'I understand.'

'I quite hoped you would. Compensation will be satisfactory.'

I chose Collins and Hanson, because I knew them well and Collins was a medic. We took a van from the car pool and followed GOD's limousine to St. Mary's. On the third floor at the end of the corridor he stepped into a small but friendly looking room with a single bed.

'Sherlock,' he said sternly.

I followed him to the bed, while Collins and Hanson stood side by side barring the door. The still figure on the bed raised his head and looked at us. Hardly more than a boy, with a mop of unruly dark curls tumbling around a face pale as a ghost's and too thin to be healthy. Dark shadows under strange light eyes that flickered across us without showing any emotion.

'Piss off, Mycroft,' he said with a surprisingly dark voice.

I sidestepped GOD and backhanded the boy casually, almost gently, across the face. Always good to establish the power dynamics right from the start. Less trouble down the line. The soft inhale from the man behind me told me that this was as far as I was supposed to go. When the lad turned his head back, a trickle of blood ran down from his split lip. He glared at his elder brother, dismissing me for the tool I clearly was.

'Get up and get dressed,' I ordered curtly.

'Can't,' he stated, raising both his hands. One wrist was secured to the bed rail with a handcuff, the back of the other hand displayed a drip feed.

I signaled Collins, who expertly removed the canula and closed the small wound with a patch, while I took a key from my pocket and uncuffed the lad's wrist.

'Now,' I said.

He sighed and swung spindly legs over the side of the bed to stand wobbling on his feet. I grabbed his upper arm to steady him and reached over his shoulder to undo the string of the hospital gown fastened at his neck.

'I can do that,' he said and promptly sunk down on the bed again when I released him.

'Get dressed, Sherlock,' GOD said, producing a bundle of clothes from a bag he had carried.

Wordlessly the boy stripped off the hospital gown and started on the clothes. His body was so lean as to look malnourished, collar bone, ribs, hip bones all protruding sharply. Both arms showed track marks on the inside of the elbows. 

'Where are you taking me?' he finally asked, pulling a jumper over his head.

'Home,' GOD answered. 'Where you will stay under the surveillance of these gentlemen until you're clean. Then we will decide how to further proceed. This can't go on. Detective Inspector Lestrade has kindly agreed to release you into my custody, otherwise it would have meant judicial proceedings and probably prison. It's the second time, after all.'

'I'd rather go to prison,' the lad spat. GOD remained quiet.

Collins and Hanson flanked him, and taking hold of his arms marched him out of the room. Outside a man with salt and pepper hair wearing a grey coat was waiting.

'I'm being kidnapped, Detective Inspector,' the boy said, 'shouldn't you do something about that?'

The man didn't answer, but looked after him with a worried expression and stopped GOD in his tracks. 'Do you really think this is the right way to…' I heard before I was out of earshot, following my charge.

On the street we bundled him into the back of the van with Collins and Hanson at his sides while I took the driver's seat. Two minutes later GOD emerged and got into his waiting car and off we went to Berkshire.

Leaving London behind us on the M4 we arrived at junction 14 about ninety minutes later due to heavy traffic. From there we followed smaller parish roads into the Berkshire downs until we arrived at a crossroads with a signpost indicating 'Sherrinford'. The lad had closed his eyes as soon as we were under way and had slept, or pretended to sleep, for the duration of the journey. Now I watched in the back mirror as Hanson shook his shoulder, telling him, 'Hey, wake up! Nearly there.'

Sherrinford turned out to be a quaint little village not far from the spring of the river Lambourne. Sherrinford House, lying to the west of the village, further into the downs, was a mansion set well back from a quiet country lane behind a six feet high wall of hand-hewn stones, accessed through a pair of wrought iron gates. Electrified, I was sure as they slowly and noiselessly opened before us. A long gravel drive wound up to the three-winged house, with lawns on one side and an old orchard on the other. In front of the house was a turning circle with a raised oval rose bed in the centre. 

Not bad, I thought. I had seen older houses and grander ones, but this was clearly an old family home - Georgian, I supposed, not being too keen on architecture - and very well maintained.

As soon as we piled out of the car, the grand double doors were opened by an elderly man who greeted GOD respectfully and swung the door wide open to let us all in. The entry hall was oak-panelled with a chequered marble floor, several closed doors down a corridor leading further into the house, and a marble staircase with a wooden banister. We climbed the stairs to the first floor and followed GOD down a carpeted corridor to the left wing where he opened a door and stood aside to let us in.

'Your home for the next few weeks, Sherlock,' he said. 

'The blue room - how appropriate,' the boy mumbled.

It was obviously a guest room. Blue silk tapestries, hardwood floor with oriental rugs, wardrobe, dresser, a single bed with accommodating night stand and two armchairs in front of the fireplace. To the right and left doors led to other rooms. 

'And yours, gentlemen,' GOD said, opening the door to the room on the left which was equally equipped, but with two single beds and a sofa. 'The bathroom is down the hall.'

When GOD turned to leave, the lad suddenly panicked and tried to follow him. I intercepted him smoothly. 

'Mycroft,' he called, 'you're not going to leave me with the hired help, are you?'

GOD didn't look back, the door swung shut.

'Scared?' Collins asked.

'Of you? Hardly,' he said.

Collins grinned.

'Keep an eye on him, would you?' I said to Collins. 'Hanson and I'll unpack our things and be right back with you.'

When I came back the boy was lying on the bed with his eyes closed and Collins was sitting in one of the chairs, browsing through a fishing magazine.

'A few ground rules,' I said, stepping up to the bed. Sherlock's eyes flicked open and he examined me with lazy interest.

'Your brother has asked us to babysit you. So, that's what we'll do. Until you're nice and clean and promise to be a good boy from now on. One of us will be with you at any time. You're not allowed out of this room alone. You're not allowed medication, so, as soon as the methadone you were given wears off, you'll start to feel real shitty. Mr Collins here is a medic and your new best friend. He'll see to it that you get through this as safely as possible. You will follow orders and you will behave. Understood?'

'You bet!' Sherlock said. I stared at him.

'You are a betting man, are you not?' he went on. 'So much so that you're in serious debt now. I'll wager you can hardly sleep at night, thinking and thinking how you'll ever be able to pay your gambling debts. Must be really hard. Especially as we're so close to Lambourne. You're more of an addict than I am. In fact, I'd bet my life on it!' He grinned mockingly.

'How do you know that?' I asked. He had hit the nail on the head with everything he'd said. But I was damned if I had told anyone and what he just had revealed could cost me my job and worse. Security risks like betting were frowned upon by her Majesty's Government, because it made one liable to bribes and blackmail.

'Hm, let's see,' he started, leaning up on one elbow and gesturing at me with the other hand. 'First there's the bags and shadows under your eyes. You haven't slept well in a while. Then you're taking jobs outside of your profession - whatever unsavoury thing that is - like this one because you need the extra money. So, money trouble's keeping you awake at night. 

'This has been going on for some time as can be deduced from the fact that you sold your old and more expensive watch and wear a cheap imitation now. But the old band was broader and your skin is lighter were it was placed. 

'That your old watch was more expensive is likely because it would go better with your clothing which is of good quality - although recently you've started to make necessary repairs yourself. No doubt to save money. Really, you don't re-stitch buttons over cross! 

'You are wearing handmade shoes, but that laceration in the sole has been there for some time and you haven't brought the pair to the cobbler. 

'Then you keep a racing form in your breast pocket which you touched when you just looked out of the window towards the downs. And all the way here you've been making little bets with yourself, like: will I reach the M4 within half an hour? I'll be at the roundabout in an hour or less. Which one could tell from your repeatedly looking at the speedometer and then controlling your watch and either shaking your head in disgust when you've lost or grinning with satisfaction when you've made it. Cute, really.' He leaned back and smiled in delight.

I looked at him numbly. He had just trashed my career.

'Dammit, you're toast, mate!' Collins said in a low voice.

'Toast?' Hanson said, entering from the next room. 'Where? I could do with some tea and toast!'

'No doubt the kitchen will send something up in a few minutes,' Sherlock said, 'although it's still a bit early for tea.

'And go easy on the toast, Mr… Hanson, is it? - or you'll endanger your recent weight loss and what would your young wife think of that?'

Hanson stared at him and said quietly, 'What would you know about my wife?'

'I see that you've recently re-married. There's still a dent in your finger where your old ring used to sit. You couldn't take it off any more when you put on a few stone. Your new wife is quite a few years younger than you and was your mistress during your previous marriage. No doubt you thought you were very lucky, but now that she's Mrs Hanson she's not quite so accommodating any more, is she?

'In fact she's criticising you a lot which is why you've recently gone through a diet, started colouring your hair and are wearing clothes just a bit too young for you. And moreover there's now that tiny niggling doubt that cheating may be a habit of hers and that now you're the cuckold. - You're probably right.'

Hanson sank into the nearest chair.

'And what I can tell you about Mr Collins here,' Sherlock concluded, obviously on a roll and unable to stop himself despite the suddenly chilly atmosphere in the room, 'is that he regularly nicks medical supplies - most likely painkillers - from the - aaah!'

Collins had flung himself onto the bed, grabbing Sherlock's wrists and wrenching them above his head as he jammed his knee into the lad's groin. Sherlock's cry ended in a gasp. That must've hurt.

'Not. Another. Word.' Collins growled into the boy's ear. 

'That's it, gentlemen,' I said. 'Don't antagonize the hired help, lad. It's not healthy. You –' I gestured to Collins, 'out!' I left the room, waiting in front of the door for him to join me.

'You don't believe him, do you?' he asked, twitching and not able to look me in the eye.

'No,' I said, 'why would I? He's obviously making this up, along with all the rest.

'Now listen to me: he's scared and he's lashing out. Don't mind him and don't rough him up, if it's not necessary. GOD's little brother, remember?'

When we came back, Sherlock was curled up on the bed, sulking. I went and stood next to him.

'That was quite the show, lad,' I said. 'Very impressive. Your brother already told me that you're clever. Although I can't say I agree with him.'

That got his attention.

'I think someone who annoys the very people he depends on for his well being for the foreseeable future must be really, really stupid, wouldn't you say? So, think before you talk out loud, all right? There's no need to make this any harder than necessary. So, let's all get along, okay?'

He turned his back on me in answer, so I went next door to report to GOD.

This must be the pink room, I thought upon entering. He sat behind an antique rosewood table, staring at his laptop screen. He didn't look up.

'All settled, sir,' I told him, standing in front of the table.

'Ah, yes,' he said slowly, finally looking at me. 'I guess you've got an impression what you're up against.'

The blue room was bugged. Of course it was bugged. I sighed.

'Come and see me regarding those debts of yours, when this is over,' he said.

'Sir,' I said tonelessly. 'It's not… He's not… right. I mean how -'

'Oh, my brother is right,' GOD said, grinning mirthlessly, 'who do you think has taught him his skills? And why do you think I picked you?'

Well, dang! I thought.

'You help me with my problem,' he said, pointing to the room next door, 'and I'll help you with yours. By the way, can you control Collins? He seems a bit… volatile. Not the best trait in a medic.'

'He won't hurt him,' I said. 'Don't worry.'

He nodded once and returned his attention to the screen, dismissing me.

When I returned to the blue room, tea and sandwiches had been brought up from the kitchen. Sherlock refused both.

Getting along proved far harder than expected. When the methadone he had been given at the hospital wore off, he became extremely snappish, regaling us all with further details of our lives we had not necessarily wanted anyone else to know about, causing us constant embarrassment.

And of course we were all 'damn perverts' when he wasn't allowed alone into the bathroom any more after we had to pluck him bodily out of the trellis next to the window the first time that evening.

Later that night serious withdrawal symptoms set in, making him sweat and shiver in turns, curling in on himself with pain and cursing us, his brother and the world at large. None of us got any sleep. 

The next day turned out even worse with excessive pain, fever and nausea. At least, after a bout of vomiting, he stopped insulting us, having no energy left while he was gasping for breath and moaning in agony. 

He refused all food and drink. Food was not yet a problem, but Collins insisted that he needed to get some fluids into him. So we had no choice but to feed them to him intravenously, which proved a sore experience for all concerned, including GOD, camped out in the pink room with his computer and phone, who was duly given a bulletin every few hours - although I'd bet my pension that he watched the proceedings next door like a hawk, despite doing his usual work - whatever that was.

'Stubborn as a mule, sir,' I reported on the second evening. 'We had to restrain him to get the drip feed in, sorry to say. That's why the screaming. But Collins says he needs electrolytes and he won't drink anything.'

'I expected nothing else,' GOD said. 'Do what you must.'

If we had thought this was as bad as it could get, we were proven wrong. The lad wouldn't eat a thing. We coaxed him with broth, chicken soup, boiled or scrambled eggs, toast, fruit, apple sauce, energy bars, relying on the house's kitchen to provide whatever was needed, but nothing would do. 

When after a very rough six days the withdrawal symptoms finally abated and he hadn't taken any nourishment, I talked to GOD again.

'Collins thinks it's getting dangerous, sir,' I said. 'He's been too thin to begin with and now he's lost at least a stone, but we can't make him eat. The drip feed isn't doing it. We could force-feed him, but that'll be nasty. So…?'

GOD looked grim. 'Does Collins know what he's doing?' he asked curtly.

I nodded. 'He's the best. But still, a hospital would be safer, if you want my opinion.'

'A hospital would need a court order to do that - which is exactly what he's banking on. Go ahead. Do it.'

'Very well,' I said and left the room to inform my colleagues.

'Dear God, give me a nice quiet undercover assignment somewhere hostile any day,' Hanson sighed.

Collins just grinned. 'Oh joy,' he said softly and started searching in his kit for a feeding tube.

Back in the blue room I tried to argue with Sherlock one last time.

'Look,' I said, 'you can eat or we can put a tube down your throat and make you. You don't need me to explain which one's going to be easier on all of us, do you?'

In the end Hanson had to sit on the boy's legs, while I clamped his nose shut with one hand and held his uncuffed wrist down with the other and Collins shoved the feeding tube down his oesophagus. He squirmed beneath us and bucked, trying to shake us off. His eyes were pinched closed and he was covered in cold sweat.

Precisely this moment the door was flung open and a woman screamed, 'Imbéciles! Laissez celui! Let go of him!'

She rushed into the room and in the next instant Collins got a vase crushed on his head and sank down across Sherlock's midriff, unconscious. Then she turned on Hanson with teeth and nails and I let go of the lad and ran around the bed to assist him.

She was tall and willowy with dark hair and clad in a black dress with a colourful shawl thrown across her shoulders. Screaming like the proverbial banshee in a mixture of French and English, she was cursing us all to hell in both languages. I tackled her from behind and clutched her in a tight embrace, trying to stop her from hurting either Hanson, who stayed in cover behind one of the arm chairs, or herself.

GOD came in running - this was the first and the last time I have ever seen him run - and tried to placate her while I held onto her for dear life. She kicked me sharply on the shin and her heel bore down on my toes. I let go of her.

'Mummy, please let me explain…' GOD said.

'What is going on here? Are you all insane?' she shrieked.

GOD took her arm and led her to the door. I bowed down to rub at my shin. I could hear them talking in French, too fast for me to understand, and then a distinctive SLAP! and her cry, 'Mycroft! Tu es un brute!'

A cool draft made me look up. The window stood open, the curtains wafting in the breeze. The bed was empty, except for the still unconscious Collins, with the open handcuff dangling from the headboard. When I looked out of the window, Sherlock Holmes was nowhere to be seen.

*****

'So,' GOD said when everyone had calmed down again - Mrs Holmes had retreated to her rooms, accompanied by Mrs Christie, the housekeeper - and Collins was holding an icepack to his head, 'how much did he take?'

'I think I had close to three hundred pounds in my wallet and of course my bank cards, driving licence and stuff,' Collins answered morosely.

'Enough to get to London, then,' GOD mused. 'And block your cards right away, if you please. We don't want to supply him with even more funds.'

A search of the grounds immediately surrounding the house had ended without results and we were too small a number to cover a greater area.

'That's it then, I suppose,' Hanson said hopefully. 'I'll go and pack my things.'

GOD looked up. 'You're welcome to do as you please, Hanson, but as far as I'm concerned I want him back and I want him cleaned up. He needs to learn a lesson and he will be taught.'

Collins grinned. For the first time I felt uneasy. This was getting... too personal for my taste.

'How do you suggest we find him in London, sir?' I asked. 'I mean, he's an addict, he'll go to his source, but do you even know who that is?'

'Very good, Miller,' he said. 'I don't know the name of his supplier – yet - but I have the police report on his arrest. Detective Inspector Lestrade found him passed out in the street. I suggest we start there.'

And so we did. We set up an operations room in a posh town house in Kensington with live feed from CCTV cameras all over the city at our disposal and concentrated our surveillance on Tower Hamlets where Sherlock had been found ten days earlier. Hanson manned the laptops while Collins and I drove around in a van keeping our eyes on the street. Didn't take us two days before a lanky figure in a black hoody turned up on our screens entering a run down house on Winterborne Estate. As soon as we got the intel from Hanson we were on our way. 

'Where's the little shit?' Collins griped and kicked a dirty mattress lying in one of the empty rooms, nothing but damp, peeling wall paper and corroded paint. All of the rooms were much like that and apart from a few strung out half corpses too far gone to answer our questions we had fund nothing of interest.

'Probably left through the back or through one of the windows,' I suggested and informed Hanson accordingly.

'GOD says to circle the area by car and keep your eyes peeled,' he came back. 'We haven't picked him up on the feed, so he must be somewhere close by.'

We did, but came up with nothing. And thus it stayed. Sherlock turned up here and there, a fleeting shadow on our screens, walking down alleys, turning street corners, entering or exciting buildings, but whenever we got there he was long gone, no trace to be found.

GOD used his powers and the police was roped in, there was a warrant out for him and Lestrade was on the line multiple times a day.

We spotted him in Vauxhall one night, where he was approached by a group of three rough looking men and after a short parlay one of them grabbed his arm and the lad followed them into a club. GOD, looking overtired and worn out, closed his eyes. The last days had been hard on him, he was down to shirtsleeves and a loosened tie.

'Perhaps it's not what it looks like,' I said.

He didn't even look at me, his mouth turned down in distaste.

'Get him out of there, for God's sake,' he ordered.

But the pattern continued. When we arrived on location, shortly after the force, Sherlock wasn't there, neither were any of the men we'd seen earlier. Anyway, Lestrade got a nice bust out of the raid.

When we spotted him on Trafalgar Square a few days later, travelling leisurely through the crowd, occasionally bumping into tourists, but never talking to anyone other than what was apparently a short apology for his clumsiness, we went all out. A cordon of uniformed police was drawn around the square while Collins and I sped over there in our van.

'He says to use the taser, if necessary,' Hanson informed us by phone. 'Not the tranc gun, we don't know what he's taken, could be dangerous.'

Collins laughed. 'Hey, this is like big game hunting,' he said. 'Only more fun.'

I wasn't so sure. We parked illegally somewhere in Duncannon Street and got out of the car.

'He's broken through the cordon, heading down The Strand, don't let him get to the station for heaven's sake!' Hanson shouted out of the phone. We started to run.

'Into Craven Street now! Try to get him in Corner House Street before he breaks through to Northumberland! Police reinforcements coming up from behind!'

And that's where we finally cornered him. In the passage connecting Craven with Northumberland, his escape route barred by three uniforms with drawn batons who had, of course, no idea who they were dealing with, but obviously thought due to the excessive efforts they were apprehending one of the world's most wanted.

We came to a halt at the Craven Street side of Corner House, panting, just when Sherlock wheeled around to run back. Collins got the taser out, but I raised my hands in a placating gesture.

'Come now,' I said, 'there's no need for that. You've led us a merry chase, but this is the end of it. There's nowhere to run and your brother doesn't mean you any harm, you know that.'

He snarled at me like a trapped animal and then the taser hit him and he went down convulsing. One of the uniforms cracked him about the ribs with his baton.

'Stop that!' I yelled. 'Get the car!' I said to Collins who watched his handy work with deep satisfaction and shocked him once more for good measure or purely out of spite. I got rid of the uniforms.

'Jesus Christ! Was that really necessary?' I said, kneeling beside Sherlock who was lying on his back, looking at me with wide surprised eyes and moaning softly. I examined him and found the probes thankfully stuck in his ratty leather jacket. Less dangerous that, than skin contact.

'Got him, tell GOD we're on our way,' I informed Hanson.

Sherlock wheezed. 'Guardian of Darkness?' he suggested. 'Do you really call him that? Or is it Glory of Destruction? Galactic Observation Device? Grand Omnipotent Divinity?' He tried to laugh, but started coughing instead. I helped him sit up, an arm around his shoulders.

'In your case it means 'Get Off Drugs!',' I said. 'But really it stands for General Operations Director – and yes, we really call him that. How about not upsetting him further?' He scowled.

Collins arrived with the car and together we manoeuvred Sherlock, who could barely stand, let alone walk, inside, locking the doors.

My phone chimed and GOD said, 'Don't come here. I'm texting you an address.'

'Dr. Sameer Ahmedani - Urology, Proctology, Sexually Transmitted Diseases' - an address in Marylebone.

I winced and showed Collins the screen. He laughed and turned the car around.

'What?' Sherlock asked from the back seat. 'Where are we going?'

'Special treat for you, sunny,' Collins said and started whistling.

'Relax,' I said. And winced again.

As soon as Sherlock saw the physician's brass plaque he stopped dead in his tracks, but Collins dragged him on. We met GOD in the waiting room.

'You can't be serious,' Sherlock said.

'Oh, but I am, brother mine. After what you've been up to I'll have you deloused, disinfected, scrubbed and purged, you have my word on it.'

Dr. Ahmedani opened the door to his surgery and we all entered more or less willingly. He was a friendly looking man with a beard, soft-voiced and polite.

'You cannot honestly think...' said Sherlock.

'You can do this voluntarily or with the assistance of my men. What's it to be?' GOD said in a very bored voice.

'Out!' Sherlock said and shed his jacket, letting it fall to the floor. 'All of you.' He turned around and unfastened his belt. We left.

Standing in the waiting room opposite GOD at the counter, while Collins sat and read some magazine, I cleared my throat and said quietly, 'Perhaps not humiliate him further, sir?'

He couldn't have been more surprised if his ever present umbrella had suddenly up and spoken to him. 'Are you giving me advice on family matters, Miller?'

'Wouldn't dream of it, sir!' I hastened to say. 'Just... I don't think he'd turn tricks. He's a pickpocket. Look!' I showed him the content of Sherlock's pockets - lifted earlier, when I had patted him down - half a dozen wallets and purses, all high class brand names.

'Jesus,' GOD said and closed his eyes, shaking his head. 'See to it that these are returned, if possible, will you?'

'Of course, sir.'

Fifteen minutes later Dr. Ahmedani opened the door and very gently escorted Sherlock out of his surgery. He looked at GOD and shook his head and the elder Holmes visibly took a deep breath.

'Very well, send me the test results.

'Well then, back to the country gentlemen. We have been interrupted earlier, I believe.'

Sherlock didn't talk to him again.

The second rehabilitation period proceeded far more smoothly, withdrawal symptoms much reduced. Sherlock proved to be an exemplary patient. He drank, he ate, he slept. He did what he was told. He just didn't talk any more. To any of us.

The only time he spoke again was when reading a newspaper he suddenly hissed, 'Yes!' Looking over his shoulder I saw the headline trumpeting something about a big gang war between groups from Tower Hamlets and Lewisham. Police had apprehended most of them, relying on a detailed anonymous tip off.

'Your old stumping grounds then,' I said, not expecting an answer.

He looked up. 'Hunting grounds would be more to the point, Miller,' he said with a feral grin.

There's not much to tell after that. Two weeks later GOD deemed him cleaned up and fit to re-enter society. We all left. I've never been back to Sherrinford.

GOD settled my debts and paid me a princely fee on top. I don't go for the horses any more.

I've seen Sherlock only twice since then. The first time was half a year later, when he came back from South America and we picked him up at the airport. They were still at war, that much I could tell.

In the following years I was occasionally told to search his flat, first in Montague, later in Baker Street. The less said about that, the better.

Still later I sometimes saw him mentioned in the newspapers. He'd become quite a celebrity, a free-lance detective, solving crimes baffling the police force with his partner, Doctor John Watson. I always felt a little proud at that.

The last time I saw him was when I smuggled him out of the city in a hearse, after, well... After.

At the specified location I opened the coffin and helped him out, assisting him as he dressed in black jeans, black jumper and leather jacket and handing him the small bag with additional clothes, papers and money. He was ghostly pale, his face a mask, hiding something like pain or fear, I couldn't say. His eyes were burning.

He got out of the car. 'Good luck then,' I said quietly.

'Thank you, Miller,' he said and turned to go. After a few steps he turned around and said, 'For everything.'

When I looked again, he was gone. There was just the night and the wind stirring the leaves of the trees lining the dark country road.

Hanson is now retired. We meet sometimes for a pint. None of us has ever seen Collins again. I still work for GOD. Sometimes I wonder if that makes me an angel.


End file.
